


With Fire In The Soul

by vvitchering (Witchering)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fire, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prejudice Against Witchers, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Rescue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27626606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchering/pseuds/vvitchering
Summary: No amount of pretty songwriting will change the hearts and minds of the world overnight. Here, in these small hopeless places, fear and superstition still reign.Geralt runs headfirst into danger, Jaskier does damage control, and a grateful stranger repays a debt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 109





	With Fire In The Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This is another story that's been sitting in my drafts for months. This first part is all of the actual story and action and can definitely be read as a standalone, so don't let the wip status scare you off. The second part will be the emotional fallout and recovery and will be where this story earns its geraskier tag.

It’s not quite dawn when the screams wake him.

It’s dark. The candles are extinguished and the sun has not yet risen, but his senses quickly pick up on the haze in the air and the thick smothering scent of smoke. The village is in flames. 

The small inn has been spared, for now, but the shrieks and screams of terrified villagers tell Geralt that time is short. He’s up, clothed and armed, before his bedmate is even properly awake. Jaskier blinks blearily in the darkness, confused and beginning to smell of fear. He barely has time to open his mouth before Geralt is hauling him upright, shoving his pack into his arms, and telling him urgently, “ _fire”._

It’s a testament to their friendship and years working together that Jaskier doesn’t question him further. He swipes their meager belongings into the pack and has his shirt and boots on by the time Geralt is halfway out the door. 

Outside, it’s chaos. Some kind soul has released the horses and they stampede down the main road, towards the fields. Roach will be fine. She’s trained to seek him out once the danger has passed and to keep herself out of it in the meantime. People stampede as well, though they are much less organized and single minded than the horses. It’s anarchy, and his thoughts are quickly drowned out by a sea of panicked screams until only one remains. 

_I need to help._

Geralt begins to run towards where he estimates the heart of the blaze lies. He thinks he hears Jaskier yell something over the roar but the words are lost in the wind. He hopes the bard is smart enough to get himself to safety rather than attempt to follow, but the hope is a fragile one. Jaskier very rarely chooses the smart option in any given situation. 

Just ahead, a cottage burns steadily. The thatched roof is mere kindling to the fire that has consumed it almost entirely and it threatens to cave in any second. A woman kneels before it, lost in hysterics, but repeating one crucial fact: her child. Her child is still inside. 

Geralt hesitates only long enough to drop his swords and pack before he charges at the door, striking it with his shoulder and smashing it out of the frame. Instantly he’s met with searing heat that nearly sends him stumbling back the way he came. His eyes sting with tears that evaporate almost as soon as they form and he squints painfully at what remains of the cottage. He strains his hearing to its limit and his heart leaps into his throat when he hears the cries coming from under a bed in the far corner. 

There isn’t time to be gentle or subtle.

He bodily lifts the bed and tosses it aside, revealing the small shaking child who seems miraculously untouched by the flames, though her tears have made small dirty tracks through the soot on her face. The roof groans hideously as a beam gives way.

Time is up.

The little girl reaches out, the witcher reaches back, and a fiery hell descends around them both. 

* * *

Jaskier thinks he should be used to things like this by now. Being rudely awakened out of a very pleasant dream and being plunged into a decidedly less pleasant reality is just how life is when one travels with a witcher. Especially a witcher like Geralt, whom Jaskier is almost certain purposely seeks out the epicenter of trouble no matter where they find themselves.

The man can preach neutrality all he wants, but he rarely follows his own creed. The sun has barely crept into the sky, the village is on fire, and Geralt is nowhere to be found. 

All around him people run and scream, blind panic preventing any kind of retaliation against the flames. The wooden structures will be little more than piles of ash by midday as the fire rages unchecked. Jaskier feels the primal urge to give in to the panic that has seized the villagers and consciously fights against it. Geralt has almost certainly gone to help and while Jaskier lacks his companion’s strength and supernatural constitution, he refuses to be a dandy in distress in such a time of need. 

He begins running through the streets, helping where he can. He helps to move the elderly and the very young out of the village. He slings the wounded over his back and drags them to safety. When his strength fails him, he turns his strong voice on the crowd and attempts to bring some order to the evacuations. He shouts directions and suggestions until he’s hoarse. Mercifully, the dawn brings clouds into the smoke choked sky and a steady rain begins to fall. 

“Praise the goddess.” Jaskier whispers to himself as the buildings smoulder and hiss. 

Panic gives way to mourning as the daylight brings the devastation into focus. More than half the village has been razed to the ground. People call out for their friends and families. Many are weeping openly in the streets before the smoking husks of their homes and businesses. Jaskier trudges through the streets, now muddied thanks to the rain, and searches for Geralt. 

He nearly trips over something and is fully prepared to unleash the last few hours of stress on whatever debris has gotten under his feet when he realizes exactly what he’s come across. A knapsack, covered in ash, and a chillingly familiar pair of swords. He knows without needing to see the blades that one is silver and the other steel. Geralt very rarely allows his swords out of his sight and he would never leave them behind to run off somewhere unarmed.

A chill runs down Jaskier’s spine that has nothing to do with his soaked clothes. He picks up the swords and they’re damningly heavy in his hands. 

A few feet away, a woman sits in the dirt, crying in the way people do when they’ve been at it a while. She’s muttering to herself and rocking back and forth, never taking her eyes off the ruins that sit just ahead of her. Jaskier feels her grief like a tangible wave and he moves toward her to offer what comfort he can. He’s about to lay a hand on her shoulder when the sound of splintering wood draws both his and the woman’s attention. 

The remains of a charred support beam split apart suddenly and violently, sending a cloud of dust and smoke into the air and obscuring the scene briefly. 

Jaskier isn’t entirely sure what he’s seeing, at first, when the dust clears. The beam has been blown apart, as if by a small explosion. A halo of golden light shows through the wreckage and a dark form seems to huddle within. All at once Jaskier forgets his aches and exhaustion and runs into the rubble towards the light. It’s unmistakably a quen shield, witcher magic, one of the signs, which means,

“Geralt!”

The golden light flickers and fades, revealing the witcher with his hand still outstretched as though he hasn’t realized the shield has vanished. He’s crouched down close to the ground, the hand that had been casting the sign stretched above his head. The rest of him is curled around something protectively.

When he reaches the witcher’s side, Jaskier gently grasps Geralt’s outstretched hand. Geralt lifts his head slowly and his eyes take a worrying amount of time to focus.

He looks exhausted. His distinctive silvery hair is almost black with soot and his armor is badly scorched. A nasty looking but thankfully small burn glistens on his neck. But he is whole, alive, and Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief. 

Geralt shakes his head as if coming out of a trance. Jaskier wants to yell at him. He wants to call him all kinds of insulting names and demand to know what he was thinking. What was so important that he felt compelled to throw down his swords and then throw himself into a burning collapsing building?

All the words die in his throat when he catches a glimpse of what Geralt has cradled in his other arm. A small child clings to him for dear life, smeared in ash and soot but otherwise unharmed. She refuses to relinquish her hold on him even as he stands, and he adjusts her in his grip so he can hold her more securely against his chest. 

“Sorry,” he rasps, and coughs to clear his throat. “I couldn’t hear what you said earlier.”

“I told you to be careful, you great idiot. Evidently you are physically incapable of that.” Jaskier responds, relieved. 

There’s the crunch of footsteps behind them. The weeping woman Jaskier had wanted to comfort approaches them with wide wild eyes. Geralt grunts and gently dislodges the child before handing her off to the woman, who all but snatches her and retreats as if the house still burns around them.

With his burden gone, Geralt seems to sag all of a sudden, his strength gone. Jaskier quickly moves closer to drape one of the witcher’s arms over his shoulders. It presses on his own sore and screaming muscles, but like hell is he going to allow Geralt to collapse on his watch. 

It takes some skill to maneuver out of the burned out house with a witcher leaning on him for support and a small crowd has gathered in the meantime. When Jaskier and Geralt emerge, a few of the men are waiting for them with thunderous expressions on their faces. 

“Step aside, bard. We’ll be having words with the witcher.” says the boldest of the men.

His tone and expression have Jaskier clutching tighter to Geralt, a scowl of his own forming. 

“What sort of words would those be, sir? Surely they can wait until my friend has recovered--”

“He’ll not be recovering here, the damned beast. We know it was him who started the fire.” says another of the men.

“What are you talking about? Geralt didn’t have a single thing to do with this blaze!” 

“‘It was him alright, saw him myself, starting the fire with his devilry! I saw it!” shouts an older man from behind his fellow villagers. A coward and a liar, Jaskier thinks to himself. He has to stop this madness before it takes hold of the entire village.

“Friends, please, there’s been a misunderstanding of grand proportions, obviously. Why don’t we all just--”

“Hand over the witcher, boy. We’ll not ask again.” the first man demands, his face twisted with hatred.

Jaskier feels real fear creep into his soul. He won’t be able to convince these people of Geralt’s innocence. He isn’t strong enough to escape with Geralt’s bulk and his own exhaustion weighing him down. They’re going to be beaten, or worse, by biogted villagers in some backwater town and-

“Jaskier.”

Geralt’s voice is still raspy, but clear in the bard’s ear. 

“Do as they say. Leave me behind and get out of here. It’s okay.”

“It’s most certainly not okay! You just risked your life to save a child and they blame you for the fire that almost took you with it! None of this is okay! You’re all insane! This man is a hero, not a damn arsonist!” Jaskier’s voice is raised and angry, hoarseness long forgotten in his rage.

It hits him suddenly that this is Geralt’s reality. No amount of pretty songwriting will change the hearts and minds of the world overnight. Here, in these small hopeless places, fear and superstition still reign.

These people saw a monster when they looked at Geralt, regardless of his deeds, and an easy target on which to pin their misfortunes. Ordinarily, a few angry humans would be a laughable threat to Geralt. But he’s hurt and drained by holding quen for so long and stands very little chance of successfully protecting himself, let alone Jaskier as well. J

askier’s rage turns to icy horror in his veins as he realizes this could very well be the end of his friend’s story, and his own by association. 

Geralt shoves weakly at Jaskier. He’s still pleading with him to leave him behind, get himself to safety, allow the villagers to have him if it means there’s enough time for Jaskier to escape. It only strengthens the bard’s resolve to remain where he is. He won’t give the crowd the satisfaction of taking either himself or Geralt without a fight.

Suddenly, there’s a body blocking the view of the angry mob of villagers. It’s the woman whose child Geralt saved from the flames. Jaskier can’t see her face but he can hear the steel in her voice when she speaks.

“You will not touch one hair on this man’s head.” She says in a surprisingly resonating voice. 

“Get out of the way, Mara! He’s burned your home to the ground!” 

The woman, Mara, Jaskier presumes, does not back down. She plants her feet more firmly in the mud before the bard and the witcher. Her daughter holds tight to her mother’s shawl. 

“He’s burned nothing and every single one of you knows it. While you ran for the hills, this man saved my daughter. He risked his life for her. That is not the act of an evil creature. If any one of you so much as grazes him or his companion with a blade, you’ll forfeit your right to my services from here on out.” 

Her clothes are wet and muddied and partially obscured by the shawl she wears, but Jaskier can just make out the distinctive white robes that mark this woman as a healer. Rather unexpected in a village as far off the beaten path as this, but her words will hold real weight. Hope claws its way back into Jaskier’s heart.

The crowd halts its advance. They are hesitant to cross their only healer. Mara turns on her heel and addresses Jaskier for the first time.

“Go. Take him and run. I’ve done what I can but you must leave now. Quickly!” she urges. 

Jaskier hauls Geralt upright somehow and slings the swords and his pack over his other shoulder. Geralt, who has been only vaguely conscious since delivering the child safely to her mother, makes a soft questioning noise. Jaskier hushes him gently and urges him forward. Mara calls out to them as they limp away at the fastest pace Jaskier can manage with so much weighing on his sore body.

“Thank you. Gods be with you, witcher.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can promise ashamed-on-the-behalf-of-humanity!Jaskier, sad-but-not-surprised!Geralt, and actual geraskier content in the second half. Which will hopefully be done and posted soon.....ish. 
> 
> Come chat with me about witcher things on tumblr and twitter @vvitchering


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